"Everyone in our family lives into their nineties," Henry said tartly. He was slapping loaves into shape, plunking one after another into a row of greased pans.

I heard a dainty ping.

William removed his pocket watch and flipped the case open. "Time for my pills," he said. "I believe I'll take my medication and then have a brief rest in my room to offset the stress of jet lag. I hope you'll excuse me, Miss Millhone. It's been a pleasure meeting you."

"Nice to meet you, too, William."

We shook hands again. He seemed somewhat invigorated by his lecture on the hazards of fatty foods.

While I put the sandwiches together, Henry put six loaves of bread in the oven. We didn't dare say a word because we could hear William in the bathroom filling his water glass, then returning to his room. We sat down to lunch.

"I think it's safe to say this is going to be a very long two weeks," Henry murmured.

I moved over to the refrigerator and took out two Diet Pepsis, which I brought back to the table. Henry popped both tops and passed one back to me. While we ate, I filled him in on the investigation, in part because he likes hearing about the work I do, and in part because I find it clarifies my thinking when I hear what I have to say.

"What's your feeling about this Barney fellow?" he asked.

I shrugged. "The man's a creep, but then I don't think much of Kenneth Voigt, either. Talk about grim. Fortunately for them, the judicial system doesn't seem to hinge on my personal opinions."

"You think the informant is telling the truth?"

"I'll know a lot more when I find out where he was on May twenty-first," I said.

"Why would he lie? Especially when it's so easy to check? From what you've said, if he was actually in jail, all you have to do is go back and look at his paperwork."

"But why would David Barney lie about it when the same possibility applies? Apparently, nobody's thought to verify the date so far-"

"Unless Morley Shine checked it out before he died." Henry imitated the "significant moment" music on a radio drama: "Duh-duh-duh."

I smiled, mouth too full of sandwich to articulate a reply. "Oh, great. That's all I need," I said when I could. "I do my job right and I die, too." I wiped my mouth on a paper napkin and took a sip of Pepsi.

Henry gestured dismissively. "Barney's probably generating some kind of smoke screen."

"I hope that's what it is. If some of this shit checks out, I don't know what I'm going to do."

Famous last words. Before I left, I put in a call to Lieutenant Becker to see if he'd heard from Inmate Records.

"I just got off the phone with them. The guy was right. Curtis McIntyre was being arraigned that day on a burglary charge. He might have passed Barney in the hall on his way to see the magistrate, but he'd have been shackled to the other prisoners. There's no way they could have talked."

"I better find out what's going on here," I said.

"You better do it quick. McIntyre got out of jail this morning at six."

10

I headed back to the office and called Sergeant Hixon, a friend of mine out at the jail. She checked Curtis McIntyre's records and gave me the address he'd provided his last parole officer. Curtis seemed to spend a portion of each year taking advantage of the rent-free accommodations provided by the Santa Teresa County Sheriff's Department, which he probably considered the equivalent of a Hawaiian condominium vacation time-share. When he wasn't enjoying the free meals and volleyball at the local correctional facility, he apparently occupied a room at the Thrifty Motel ("Daily, Weekly, Monthly… Kitchens") on upper State Street.

I parked my VW across the road from this establishment, which quick calculation told me was within walking distance of the jail. Curtis didn't even have to spring for a taxi on release. I imagined that his was that one room without a ratty car parked out front. The occupants of the other units boasted Chevies and ten-year-old Cadillacs, vehicles favored by auto insurance defrauders, which is what they might have been. Curtis hadn't been out of jail long enough to engage in any illegal activities. Well, maybe littering, lewd conduct, and public spitting, but nothing major.

The Thrifty Motel looked like the sort of "auto court" where Bonnie and Clyde might have holed up. It was L-shaped, built of cinder block, and painted the strange green that yolks turn when they've been hard-boiled too long. There were twelve rooms altogether, each with a tiny porch a little bigger than a doormat. Someone had planted marigolds in matching coffee cans arranged in twos and threes by the front steps. The office at the entrance was dominated by a Coke machine and the front window was obscured by mock-ups of all the credit cards they took.